


Pigface

by HalosandSeeds



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Blood and Gore, Brutal Murder, Cock & Ball Torture, Fisting, Genital Torture, Gore, Kidnapping, Knives, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia, Plot Twists, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNING, blowtorch, gut fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalosandSeeds/pseuds/HalosandSeeds
Summary: Trent choked on his sobs and protested against the gag, glancing at his kidnapper with watery eyes. The hand that grabbed a fist full of his hair and yanked viciously ended his incoherent pleas with a fearful squeak. “Shut the fuck up, slut.”OrA fanfiction adaptation of the Broken snuff film directed by Peter Christopherson and created as an idea by Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails. It features our precious goth babies. See notes at the beginning and end for more explanation.





	Pigface

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction featuring Brian Warner and Trent Reznor is going to be much different from what I have written so far for you guys. In case you didn't read the tags, this story (of fiction mind you) will contain elements of con non, torture, gore, rape, murder, necrophilia, etc. It is not for those who have weak stomachs. If this story is triggering for you, DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER. Acknowledge my warnings, and respect them and respect yourself. Do not read this story if these elements make you uncomfortable and anything but excited to read.   
> Like wise, if you DO decide to read anyway, you cannot comment on how it triggered you and you cannot drag me because that is what I put the warnings on here for: to warn those who are faint of heart against reading something this extreme. And believe me, it will be extreme.   
> If you do not want to read the entire scene of torture, rape, and murder, see the end notes for some spoilers that you would probably want to read more than this.

The fact that he was just standing there, looking so vulnerable, so pretty, so utterly out of place in this dull suburban neighborhood made the man’s blood boil in the driver’s seat of his run down automobile. _What a fag…_ he thought spitefully. _What a fucking fag…_ The moment he laid his eyes on him he hated him. He hated his guts. He wanted to rip them out and fucking tear them to shreds. He wanted to do anything and everything to this young man. And why not? There was no one to see it happen, no one to call the cops, no one to stop him from taking this sweet twink and ruining him.

 

Something bubbled in the pit of his stomach, something warm and rancid and dreadfully revolting, something that made his hatred for this random young man increase ten times over. Maybe it was the way his dark shoulder length hair blew in the gentle wind or those dark green eyes that lit up when alarmed, attentive, or curious. Maybe this man waiting in his car just liked the way his mouth moved when he saw him speaking or when his cute tongue flicked out to lick his lips. Maybe it was his body, so lithe and slim and small that made the man yearn to touch him, violate him, bruise him, ruin him.

 

Whatever it was, the bubbling was boiling, and the man felt the sickly warmth of want wash over him with no intention of peace. His gaze settled to a threatening glare at the young man on the other side of the street, and his mind was made up without the second thought of turning back. His fist turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. The young man had noticed the noise and turned to inspect where it had come from. And when their eyes met, the man in his beat up pressed lightly on the gas, nearing him slowly yet surely.

 

Now the young man started to look nervous, which made a dreadful grin form on his stalker’s face. The brakes screamed and screeched when he came to a stop, and slowly he got out from the car and approached that _pretty fucking twink_.

 

Perhaps he heard the young man ask him what he wanted. Maybe his appearance alone was alarming enough what with his long jet black hair, tattoos splayed along his arms, and that cruel grin that accentuated a lip ring that gleamed in the sun. His dark eyes glittered with something more than just want, more than just obsession, but a cruel purpose full of inhumane thoughts, deplorable, unspeakable.

 

The twink (that was what he decided to call him since he did not know his name and didn’t much care to know) took a stumbling step back, gaping at him with those large green eyes, eyes he thought would be much prettier plucked out and in the palm of his hand, bloodied and torn. The man approaching him noticed how small he was compared to him and almost chuckled at how easy this was already. No one to see it done, and in a few moments, they would be gone. The man gripped what was in his fist, a cloth of some sort but kept his approach slow, almost casual like he really wasn’t aiming for the man in front of him.

 

He asked him again, louder this time, what he wanted, and then he asked him what he was doing, but his stalker could not hear him; his voice had fogged out in his ears, sending his brain on a buzzed overdrive. He was close enough. He raised his arm, reached for the man with boney, slender fingers, spun him around and pulled him to his chest, his back facing him. If the twink tried to scream, all other attempts were futile as soon as his stalker smashed the cloth against his nose, keeping it pressed there and holding his flailing arms down in his struggle. Eventually his erratic movements ceased, and he temporarily knew no more as his stalker dragged his limp body away into the back of his car and drove off. They had never been there.

 

**

 

When Trent finally came to, he realized he couldn’t move, and then blurred and vague scenes of what happened before he blacked out came into view, and he remembered everything. He gasped which sounded more like a sloppy hiss, and his eyes flew open. A glossy haze had settled over his wide green eyes while he blinked rapidly in attempts to take in his sinister surroundings. He was in a basement of some sort, and a musty scent reached his nose. It smelled like death and decay mixed with mold, and Trent nearly choked when the stench reached his slightly open mouth. God, he could almost taste it. A metal table stood in one corner, and Trent wasn’t certain but he thought the stain on the side looked like dried blood.

 

In fact, dark stains, both large and small, covered the ceiling, walls, and floor of this room, and Trent’s heart began to pound even faster, breathing heavily, and letting out small, helpless sounds. Then he realized his situation.

 

He found he sat in a wooden chair in the middle of the room, strapped into it with a belt and hands tied behind his back viciously with thick nylon ropes. He was cleave gagged, and the rag in his mouth made him sputter and choke at the vile, unwashed taste. What the fuck was this?!

 

Trent immediately began to hyperventilate and break down, struggling against what held him in place and whimpering against the gag. He sounded ridiculous honestly, but that wasn’t his worry at the moment. Someone was in the room with him. He stared at him. He watched him writhe and squirm in his seat, begging incoherently for release. He smiled evilly at his panicked desperation. Fucking twink. All his. Ready to be played with.

 

He looked like he was about ready to cry; the way this pretty boy’s eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment and terror only made his captor’s smile grow, and then he stepped into the light. A mask was not necessary to remove any trace of humanity from his face. He looked wild all on his own with a pale, long face, eyes, with the contact- one white and the other his normal dark brown, swathed in heavy eyeliner, and lips painted, smudged, no- fucking covered like a red stain in cheap lipstick. He was shirtless, chest and stomach pale as a sheet and covered in various scars and healing wounds, probably self-inflicted. On his arms were various tattoos, strange and quite frankly, terrifying.

 

Trent gulped and stared into those wild, crazed eyes of his captor. And then he came closer. And Trent began to struggle again while he laughed and laughed and laughed. It was chilling. Not an ounce of pity or sanity resonated with his deep, gravelly voice, and when he spoke, Trent felt shivers run up and down his spine.

 

“The slave moves.”

 

A small sound escaped Trent’s lips as soon as he opened his mouth, and his captor laughed some more, so close now until he knelt down in front of him, surveying his bound form with a cruel smile. Then, with something of an insanely calm smile, he leaned in close and pressed his mouth against his knuckle, flicking his tongue out between his fingers. Trent let out a squeal and immediately closed his hand into a fist, which ushered another chuckle from his captor.

 

“You taste delicious,” he practically moaned. With a smirk and a small nip at one of his fingers, he growled, “Good thing I’m starving.” He got up then and walked around his potential victim with a ravenous gaze, running his boney fingers through his dark hair. Trent choked on his sobs and protested against the gag, glancing at his kidnapper with watery eyes. The hand that grabbed a fist full of his hair and yanked viciously ended his incoherent pleas with a fearful squeak. “Shut the fuck up, slut.”

 

Trent gulped, his head tilted so far back he nearly forgot to breathe. Especially with a blade pressed against his throat. “Don’t scream,” the man behind him growled, and then he removed the gag.

 

“Please, wh-whoever you are, p-please let me go,” Trent began to stammer pitifully. “I promise I-I won’t tell anyone. I pro-“

 

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up, you fucking twink?” Another tug to Trent’s hair, and he shut his quivering mouth instantly, freezing at the cold knife against his neck. “Call me Manson,” the man suddenly purred into his ear, and his breath hitched in his throat at the contact. “Though I doubt you’ll be using your tongue for anything other than begging and screaming for me to kill you quickly. But that’s no fun.” The man known as Manson almost seemed to pout when he turned his head to face him. “I like to play with my food before I eat it.”

 

Trent felt a finger push against his lips intrusively and explore the inside of his mouth. He nearly choked. The finger tasted like iron and dirt, stroking his tongue, and Trent stiffened, squirming a little beneath Manson’s grip when his other hand came around to grip his chin and force his mouth open. He would have bit his fingers if he were brave enough, but who knows what this fiend would have done to him had he dared it? He was still tied to the chair, and Manson was violating his mouth, making him gag.

 

“Open up,” his deep voice growled by his ear, and Trent had no choice but to obey, swallowing another sob. A lukewarm, foul-tasting liquid met his tongue instantly, and he sputtered and choked, gripping the armrests of the chair and struggling violently. Once Manson released him, Trent lurched forward in his seat as he coughed and wheezed. He shivered and eyed Manson warily when he walked past him to face him head on. With a sickening smile, Manson advanced on him only to remove his restraints with the knife in his hand.

 

Trent’s mind and heart were going a mile a minute, and his thoughts scrambled with the very few possibilities of getting the fuck out of there. _Escape. Gotta escape. Gotta get away from this sick fuck. Can’t wait to find out… just go._

Trent bolted from the chair and lunged for the stairs, expecting to hear any form of shouting and yelling and angry footsteps after him. All he heard was laughter, chilling, taunting laughter, and he stopped only for a millisecond, just a millisecond before the flight of stairs until he felt his body begin to shut down. His brain dulled by the second, and his limbs swayed and stumbled before he fell to the floor in a heap. _That drink. He gave him something._ He won’t be able to run away. At all.

 

Scrabbling for the steps with a frantic urgency, Trent heaved in a breath and struggled to hoist his upper body towards them, practically straining every muscle to reach what seemed so far away. He never made it of course. Manson was upon him within seconds of his struggles and grabbed onto his hips, his legs, his ankles, anywhere he kicked and squirmed, pinning him down but not without a quick feel.

 

Trent tried to scream as loud as he could, but every sense of his dulled much too quickly, and his scream came out as a whimper, helpless and pathetic. He tried kicking at his attacker, but his legs had become mush not to mention the fact that Manson had his limbs pinned entirely. He tried to scream again, but his jaw seemed locked whether out of fear or the strange drink that his captor had given him. Whatever the case, Trent internally watched while Manson hauled him up, hands under his armpits, and dragged him towards that ominous-looking metal table in the dark corner of the basement.

 

“No… Stop… p-please… no…” Trent’s pleas came out in shuddered gasps, quiet, much too quiet and Manson either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to listen. Either way he wouldn’t have stopped. Carelessly, he dumped him on his back on the table and pulled his quivering arms over his head. There were restraints connected to the surface of the table, and Manson swiftly clapped Trent’s wrists in them without a word.

 

His vision grew blurry. His eyes went dim. He was fading fast, and only Manson’s deep, gravelly voice kept him conscious through most of it.

 

“…wanna hurt that pretty little thing…”

 

Trent groaned and mindlessly tugged on the chains as soon as he heard the sound of his belt being unbuckled, his fly going undone, and the shifting noise of his jeans being pulled down to his ankles. He felt those long-fingered hands yank on the waistband of his underwear as they were dragged down as well, leaving his lower half fully exposed for this sadistic stranger’s liking. The only thing he could do was whimper “no” over and over again but for little effect. His pleas were futile.

 

“…wanna hurt you so very, very badly,” Manson droned and that’s when Trent felt the cold thumb that pressed against the puckered hole of his ass.

 

_No._

_NO._

Trent wanted to yell and thrash and kick and fight, do anything to free himself, perhaps even attempt to knock this sick fuck out, but he was drugged heavily, nearly to the point of sedation and tied to a metal slab of a table like a dead mink ready to be dissected, torn open, studied, _ruined_. There was no escape from this. This man was going to do horrible things to him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

“Soft,” Manson mused, mostly to himself. “Be a pity to destroy such a pretty face and pretty hair and pretty…” His gaze dropped to Trent’s open and exposed ass again, and that harsh grin spread over his face once more. He looked diabolical. “I’ll keep your eyes for later. Something to remember… Peel off those eyes…”

 

It seemed like he would revert from talking to Trent to muttering to himself mostly. The man was absolutely insane; Trent knew that even in his drugged state, and he prepared for the worst.

 

A long finger inserted into his ass instantly without Trent realizing it was going to happen, and he practically screamed. The intrusion and pain were unbearable, the sting like sand paper rubbing over his insides. Then Manson began pumping in and out of him at a wild, merciless pace, and Trent, in pain and unable to do anything about it, whined, instinctively tightening his walls around him. Apparently the drug was designed to keep him docile and immobile, but it didn’t keep the constant feeling of excruciating sting and discomfort away. Then, suddenly, Manson’s finger was gone, and Trent was left on the table, chest heaving, eyes wandering to either side of him.

 

Manson stood over him, playing with his fingers a little. It seemed taunting like he was going to do something else already. Trent didn’t doubt it in the back of his mind. Those awful yet strangely alluring dark eyes kept him to a shivering mess, still feeling the aftermath of his finger deep inside of him, exploring and violating him. Suddenly those fingers curled into a fist, and Manson walked around the table until he was in between Trent’s spread thighs. He began to rub his fist. Slowly. Chuckling long and low.

 

And Trent knew exactly what he had in mind.

 

“No… n-no… please, don’t… please…”

 

He froze as soon as Manson placed a finger of his free hand to his lips. “Sh, sh, sh, sh, sh…” he leered. “Wanna know what you feel like.” The finger entered him again, and Trent tightened his own hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut, and thrusting his face into his arm to hide from everything. He wanted to hide from the pain and this man and this fucking place and fucking everything. How the fuck did he get himself into this?

 

“Wanna feel that wet… wanna feel you quiver around me… bet you taste good… bet he tastes so fucking good…” He was talking to himself again, and then Trent felt another finger enter him deep, the burning sting all too familiar. He crooked his fingers inside of him and then straightened them, curling and scissoring them against his walls and making Trent twitch as he did so. His knuckles were white while he gripped the chains, and he drew out a sigh followed by a choked sob. This was anything but what he hoped he would enjoy in his life. The experience was dreadful. A loss of innocence to some extent, a violation, careless, merciless. He didn’t even bother to lube him up. Why would he?

 

Manson obviously took great pleasure from seeing his new victim in pain.

 

A third finger shoved deep inside, but still Trent was unable to move and struggle. A strangled noise escaped his lips, and it only urged Manson to push his pinky finger in as well, the burn making it all too unbearable to even form words. He couldn’t beg anymore. Now he just waited, sucking in a breath, vision going blurry once again, lost in the painful burn and sting of Manson’s fingers scraping against his entrance, going in dry, in and out without a moment’s pause. Even when he withdrew his hand, Trent knew he wasn’t finished, and dread washed over him. The stretch of his whole fist working its way into his hole shocked him however, shocked him into a muttering, whimpering mess, practically begging Manson to have mercy.

 

“Stop… _please_ …”

 

Manson pretended he didn’t hear him, and just to make sure he wouldn’t be hearing him anymore, he grabbed the gag from his back pocket and leaned forward to shove it in his mouth.

 

“No… NO-“ Trent practically choked mid-scream when the cloth was forced down his throat. _This couldn’t be happening._ Even now he still hoped it was a dream. A fucking nightmare. It wasn’t _real_.

 

Manson had managed to push his entire fist, as hard as it was to stretch him even further, into Trent without a word, and a smothered, strangled noise escaped his mouth muffled from the gag. Wetting his lips a little in a ravenous way, Manson released an almost blissful sigh, shuddering a little while his eyes slipped shut. The little twink felt so warm inside, and as he pulled out a little only to push in deeper, he heard a soft whimper from below and glanced down. His grin widened instantly.

 

The fucking whore was crying.

 

Trent sniffed wetly on his sobs, his face tear stained. Sweat and tears mixed in as his hair stuck to his face, and he shook violently. The chains rattled while he writhed and trembled in his agony, and more whimpers and small noises of pain and discomfort varied with the sound of his sobbing.

 

Something that felt sickly warm slowly slid down his thigh, and it took him only a second to realize exactly what it was. Trent’s eyes widened, and he screamed long and loud. Manson chuckled while he yelled, and then his mouth formed into a cruel sneer. He leaned forward so that his wild-looking face was level with Trent’s and he grabbed his chin with his free hand.

 

“You squeal like a fucking pig,” he growled.

 

Trent never felt more vulnerable, more violated, more afraid in his life. Those dark eyes, void of any sanity, any compassion, any mercy, stared deep into his own filled with a hunger beyond human capability. Trent couldn’t stare into those awful eyes any longer for fear of falling down the bleak abyss that reflected back at him. He couldn’t bare the pain any longer, couldn’t bare those fingers exploring deep inside him. He felt used, ruined, and the blood trickling down his leg left him in shock. That cruel mouth smiled at his pain once more, mocking him.

 

Then Trent’s mind and body betrayed him, and darkness enveloped him completely.

 

**

 

When he came to, Trent found his pants securely fastened around his waist thankfully, but that didn’t make anything better. He cracked open his eyes and immediately felt a wave of indescribable pain wash over his body and settle right in a spot that made him want to wail and sob all over again. He became fully aware of the wet patch along the backside of his jeans that continued to grow even if only a little. That fiend had torn him apart and quite frankly wasn’t finished with him yet seen as how he was still chained to the table.

 

“Finally awake,” Manson sighed carelessly, waving his knife around. His eyes landed on Trent, and the darkness pierced him when he stared. If he could, the man could knock him dead with just one glance. Trent shivered, now able to move a bit though his brain still felt a bit fuzzy. He shook his head and yanked on the chains, whimpering at his futile attempts of escape. Manson chuckled, amused with his struggles and got up from his seat. He approached him menacingly, slamming the knife down on the table and reached forward to remove the manacles from his wrists.

 

Trent shook violently, mostly from shock at his body’s realization from what he had just endured earlier. But the man was so close. Too close, and Trent wanted to crawl into a hole and hide from that malevolent looking stare. He looked like he wanted to fucking _eat_ him.

 

“Let me go… please…” Trent could all but murmur once he was free of his bonds. “I won’t tell anyone.”

 

Manson shushed him by placing a finger to his quivering lips and crooned in a sickly sweet manner, “Pretty little thing. Let you go? Mmm… You’re too sweet for me to let you go, baby boy. We haven’t even finished playing yet.”

 

Trent choked back a soft sob as soon as he felt his warm, wet tongue lave its way up his cheek. Then, with his teeth grazing his skin, he promptly bit down into a soft, sensitive part of his neck, moaning a little as he did so. Trent could only stiffen and cry out. He lifted his hands to push him away, but Manson held firm, and with a low growl, he released him and lifted him off the table to drag him to the center of the room. Letting out a short scream from the abrupt pain in his ass, Trent lay on his side, trembling uncontrollably as he watched Manson pull a lone folding chair towards the center of the room beneath a rung in the ceiling. Then he advanced on Trent.

 

Manson didn’t even bother ordering him to get up; he simply held him up by his armpits and pulled him along towards the chair. He handled him like a ragdoll or even a slab of meat ready to be tenderized, and somehow, through the blindness of the pain, Trent knew exactly what this creep wanted. He nudged him on the rickety chair, and Trent hoisted himself up there as best as he could though he couldn’t bring himself to stop shaking. He stood there and waited, lips trembling, hands twitching and fidgeting in front of him while Manson took the time to grab another chair with some nylon rope.

 

He hardly bothered to look him in the eyes as he leveled with him on the chair, raising both his arms with the rope in hand. Trent began to beg again.

 

“Don’t do this to me please,” he sobbed, sweat pouring down his temples, snot mixing with his tears. “Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll do anything…” He managed to get out one last ‘please’ before Manson grabbed his face with one hand and with the other, struck him across the mouth viciously.

 

Trent screamed and brought his arms down to cover his mouth. A small amount of blood seeped between his fingers, and he whimpered, staring at Manson with watery eyes. Manson tore his hands away from his mouth harshly, ignoring his small cry of fear and eyed the blood dripping from his nose and lips. He zeroed in on them, smashing his mouth against his in what would be considered the worst, most violating kiss of Trent’s life. Manson groaned into the kiss, moving his mouth and tongue against Trent’s lips in order to open him up more. He bit down hard on Trent’s lower lip, ushering a slight cry from him and dragged his teeth across the tender skin, emitting sucking noises as he went. He was fucking _tasting_ his blood.

 

Trent gasped and whimpered helplessly once Manson broke away roughly and raised his arms again. He only began to cry again when he tightened the knot of his bonds with a sharp tug and eyed his creation up and down. Manson licked his full, painted lips and grinned wickedly as he dropped down to the floor. Kicking the chair out from under him, he watched in vile glee as Trent, suspended from the ceiling by his wrists, swayed a little and squeezed his tear-stained eyes shut as the ropes began to dig into his tender skin. Good thing he was so light and skinny, Manson thought to himself, the sickening grin still apparent on his face.

 

His knife was in his hand, and Trent released another wet, choked sob when he grasped the collar of his plain white t-shirt and dragged the blade down the middle. Goosebumps formed once Trent heard the sharp ripping noise and felt the cool air that hit his chest. His senses were on overdrive, and he only wished he could feel anything but those long-fingered, prodding hands stroking his skin with every intention to ruin him. Manson smirked and smacked his palms down against Trent’s concave stomach, waving his knife dangerously close to his flesh.

 

“Sweet fucking twink…” Manson murmured and then brought the blade down. He has such beautiful skin, he thought. I know I can make it even more beautiful. Just for me.

 

Trent looked down with wide eyes, breathing heavily through his nose, and then a strangled noise mixed with a round of desperate, frantic ‘no’s’ broke from his slightly mangled lips. The knife dug into his chest, and the blood flowed freely as did the excruciating pain that immediately followed.

 

“That’s right; keep screaming,” Manson growled and landed a blow into his stomach so that he spun around wildly in the air. In his sick amusement, Manson continued to slash his knife at him as he swung until he was bleeding even more profusely down his front. Once he stilled, Manson observed the fresh cuts he gave him and sucked in a breath, looking like he was in a dream, a rather grotesque dream, and here he was living his dream, his own red delight. Trent however, was living in a nightmare, and the knife dragging slowly down his chest reminded him that it was very, very real.

 

He heard Manson mutter under his breath, “I’ll give you something else to scream about, you little slut,” and watched him as he approached the table that displayed an assortment of tools. He reached for the blowtorch, and Trent, his desperation reaching its peak, began to scream.

 

“S-stay away! Get away from me!” Trent’s pleas met deaf ears as usual, and his body lurched back from the impact of the white hot flame of the blowtorch in Manson’s grip. He swayed violently in the air, and Manson burned whatever inch of pale, smooth flesh that rushed to meet him. Trent shrieked each time and flung his head back in his agony as he burned him over and over again, mutilating his flesh for his own general delight.

 

The burns combined with the various slashes and cuts were a pretty sight to see for Manson’s eyes. The corners of his lips turned up in a cruel smile, and he released a blissful sigh at the gruesome display. Trent’s mutilated chest heaved uncontrollably, up and down and up and down, and his breathing was ragged as it staggered from his lips stained with dried blood. Those large green eyes were glazed over in a permanent state of pain and anguish, glossed over from his tears that left streaks on his pallid cheeks. _He looked so pretty when he cried._

 

“You look too sweet for me like this,” Manson mused, rubbing damp strands of his dark hair together between his fingers. “All covered and marked up. All mine. I want to see the rest of you like this.” It wasn’t until he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans that Trent began to hyperventilate, gasping in breaths and shuddering out panicked sobs.

 

The jeans were pulled down past his knees along with the underwear before he could struggle, and Trent’s face instinctively reddened at being exposed in front of this sick fuck again. And then those cold, long fingers wrapped themselves around the soft shaft of his cock, gently stroking in a slow, brazen way. If this was how it was going to be, if Manson was going to go back and forth between pain and humiliation, then Trent just wanted to get this over with; although he wasn’t certain he could withstand any of it anymore. A small noise of resistance fell from Trent’s trembling lips when Manson continued to stroke.

 

“You like that?” Manson smirked, tightening his grip when Trent began to twitch and try to lurch away. Trent squealed and squeezed his eyes shut in pain.

 

Gritting his teeth, Trent breathed out a distressed, shaky, “Please. Stop.”

 

Suddenly Manson’s vile grin resumed a threatening leer and a vicious yank to Trent’s manhood ushered a sharp yelp out of him. “Slave thinks he can fight back,” he murmured with an extra squeeze. “We’ll see about that.” He stepped away only to the table of tools again and grabbed a straight razor. Trent didn’t see the blade until he advanced on him and when he noticed it shining in the dull lights along the ceiling, he began to scream.

 

“That’s right, let me hear you scream, you fucking whore!” Manson shouted above his shrieks as he brought the razor blade down on his soft, limp flesh.

 

Trent heard the ripping sound, felt the tearing sensation of agonizing pain in his lower half, and screeched long and loud. The vision of Manson with blood on his wild-looking face, his fucking blood, blurred before his eyes. Trent saw him raise something limp, bloody, and dangling in his hand and could only assume what it was. He shrieked again in a higher pitch, only hearing the sound of Manson’s deep, droning, awful voice in his ears. “Souvenir,” he chuckled, only snarling when Trent refused to stop wailing.

 

“If you keep screaming like that, I’ll shove this down your fucking throat,” he growled, and Trent groaned in response, feeling the tears flow.

 

Pressing his lips together and squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he could, Trent huffed out various shaky breaths and whimpered with a few occasional yelps. The pain was unbearable, blinding, and the shock took over instantly.

 

Before he knew it, Trent found himself letting his head fall back. The lights blurred above him, and there was a slight buzz in his ears. He let his eyes flutter shut for the third time and fell into darkness again.

 

**

 

The first sound he heard was his own blood pulsing in his ears and the throbbing of his temples going a mile a minute as soon as he cracked his eyes open and took in his dreaded surroundings.

 

Trent lay on his back with his arms pinned over his head, completely naked on the table. The metal felt cold against his skin, and a dull throbbing followed by a sharp pain directed his attention towards his mangled crotch. He only just remembered what happened as soon as he laid eyes on what faced him down there, and then his eyes began to water as he writhed in the fresh pain.

 

“Good. You’re awake.”

 

Simply the sound of his voice made Trent let out a high shriek, and once he could see clearly enough, he found Manson on top of him with his fist abruptly pressed against his throat. “You never learned your lesson, did you, you little slut?” he muttered dangerously. Instinctively, he squeezed, and Trent instinctively gasped for breath, coughing wetly and thrashing beneath him. His struggles were futile, and that buzzing in his ears grew louder, more high-pitched; his lungs burned, screamed for relief, though it seemed that Manson would never show mercy.

 

“W-what have y-you done… to me?” he wheezed, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, sweat pouring down his forehead and cheeks, mixing in with the dried blood.

 

As if someone had snapped their fingers, Manson’s expression instantly changed from the menacing snarl to a cunning grin, and those dark, demonic eyes raked down Trent’s body towards the one spot he had completely destroyed. He hummed with deranged contentment and traced a single finger down Trent’s thigh, making him shiver.

 

“You’re so pretty like this, so… delectable,” he crooned. “My pretty little toy.”

 

Trent never gained the chance to catch his breath, and he flinched once he felt Manson’s long, wet tongue lave the side of his neck and meet the crest under his trembling jaw. His chest heaved, and he squirmed, despite Manson’s determined, tightening grip.

 

“Almost perfect…” his captor and tormentor breathed in a dream-like state. Playing with stray, sweat-soaked locks of Trent’s hair, Manson mused for a moment before alighting from the table and striding towards the other table of tools with an almost gleeful spring in his step.

 

Trent didn’t see it.

 

He heard it.

 

And he knew it was over.

 

The dreadful sound could cut through the air and make the hairs on the back of anyone’s neck stand up on end. The sound was threatening, and the smell of gas flooded Trent’s nostrils as soon as that rumbling noise started up, like a key turning in the ignition of a car only much, much more ominous.

 

Manson came at him with the chainsaw before he could so much as scream for help. Who would hear him? He was alone with this insane fuck who either wanted to rape him, kill him, or eat him. Maybe a bit of all three.

 

Trent screamed anyway as the teeth of the blade came down on his thigh, shredding flesh, spraying blood, cracking bone. He heard the bones snap, felt the grinding, slicing pain that traveled all the way through every inch of his distorted, violated body. The screams turned to shrieks, screeches, bone-rattling bellows that fell to deaf ears. Manson murmured nonsensically through his noise and his pleas, murmuring how pretty he looked in all that red, squirting out over his naked body, murmured how he would be perfect, so perfect very, very soon.

 

Trent didn’t want to look down at the ghastly stub of all that was left of his poor leg. The pain was excruciating, indescribable, and once Manson lowered the saw to observe his vile creation, Trent continued to scream, forming words he never thought he’d say out loud.

 

“Please kill me! Kill me! Fuck- _please_! I just want to die… Please just kill me!” He didn’t know how else to implore him to end his life. He would be dead either way, but he couldn’t take anymore, dying slowly, watching as Manson would cut him apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but a mound of pitiful flesh. He wanted to die. He wanted to stop suffering. He was no martyr. This wasn’t some test to prove his worth or his faith or anything. There was nothing. Just the mindless thought of death. The end of suffering. The end of the enslavement of humanity in this vile, cruel, wretched world, merciless and unsympathetic to the cries of the creatures it held.

 

He hardly uttered a sound when Manson proceeded to slice off his other leg along his white thigh. The loss of blood left him in a sick, delirious trance in this hell he couldn’t seem to escape from. Trent’s eyelids fluttered as more of his red blood splattered against his eyelids and eyelashes. He found them growing heavy as the vision of Manson and his wild, painted face looming above him blurred and fuzzed.

 

“Finally… so perfect…”

 

He could barely hear him. He sounded so far away.

 

He couldn’t even feel him climb on top of him, spreading what was left of his limbs. He could just barely feel that his pants were down, his cock was hard, and he was lining it up against his loose, torn entrance. This was a new level of profane, a new level of deplorable, unspeakable, and Trent could not do a single thing about it. He was limbless and tied to a table, releasing his grip on the chains and letting his hands hang limp over his head.

 

Manson pounded into him wildly, but he felt no pain. He was numb through and through, eyes staring off into the pale green light of the last room he would ever walk into, ears tingling from the buzzing that slowly, gradually began to dull. Manson’s own eyes, crazed and filled with lust stared down at his victim in ecstasy.

 

So close to coming. Yes. So fucking close. Couldn’t wait to spill his fucking load inside of this fucking twink. All covered in red. Drenched in blood. Yes. So pretty. So fucking pretty. Pretty little dead boy.

 

Just when he thought he would release deep inside of him, Manson held off and pulled out, watching how Trent’s chest just barely rose and fell. His breaths were soft. So soft. Too soft. It was haunting. Manson hated it. He would stop it. Just so he wouldn’t have to hear it.

 

Trent let out a small grunt when a dull thump hit his chest, and he visibly noticed Manson’s blade protruding from it and being dragged down, tearing flesh, breaking bone. Everything was fading from view, darkening, leaving him. No, he was leaving everything else. Then, Manson’s hand reached deep inside of him, there was sharp tug, and Trent knew no more.

 

His heart was no longer beating. Manson held it tentatively, with shaking fingers in the palm of his hand. He stared at it wide-eyed and huffed out a long breath, relishing the warmth of the blood from the organ that oozed through his fingers.

 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Manson brought the still heart to his lips and buried his nose and mouth against the gamey warmth. Teeth bit down. Manson groaned and swallowed, letting his eyes fall back into their sockets as he lifted his head towards the ceiling, blood running down from his gaping mouth and dribbling down his chin, tickling him a little. Fuck, he needed release. This was everything he obsessed over. And he finally had it. Knife in hand, Manson dragged the blade across Trent’s stomach, observing his lifeless body, spilling his guts. They pooled into his lap, and Manson stared, feeling a twitch and groaning in arousal.

 

He didn’t know when he started thrusting himself into the wet warmth of Trent’s stomach. His blood rushed to meet him, and Trent’s body moved back and forth, up and down with each powerful thrust. Manson stared into those glassy green eyes, seeing nothing and whined as he felt himself on the edge of releasing.

 

“Pretty dead boy, my dead boy, all red and warm and wet for me…” he babbled until he tensed and moaned long and low, coming deep inside of him with one last thrust that nearly knocked them both over.

 

Manson collapsed on top of Trent’s corpse, feeling nothing but his sweat-soaked, blood-drenched body, cold and still. There was no rise and fall to his perfect chest now mangled with his cuts and burns. Manson lay his head down against it and held the body close to him, continuing to drone senselessly.

 

“My pretty dead boy. All mine.”

 

**

 

Someone had taken the remote and turned it off.

 

Trent wasn’t sure if it had been him or Brian but as soon as he settled back in his seat on the couch and set the remote down, he knew. He huffed out a breath.

 

Both looked at one another and then back at the still grey, fuzzy screen of the television.

 

“This can’t get released.”

 

“We can’t allow this to go public.”

 

Both said it at exactly the same time as the other and turned to glance at each other again for good measure, reminding themselves that what they had just finished was completely and utterly and entirely fake.

 

Trent slumped in his seat.

 

Brian leaned forward, hands pressed together and resting against his lips as if he were praying. He was simply brooding. Long and hard over what had just occurred.

 

“H-how did we do it?” he stammered, shaking his head in disbelief. “It seemed like such a ruse to us in the moment. I never thought…”

 

“It could look this real?” Trent interjected. He shook his head as well and stared hard at the floor. “I think we went too far.”

 

“All those prosthetics…”

 

“We _definitely_ went too far.”

 

“So many prosthetics…”

 

“The public won’t take this well that’s for certain.”

 

Brian leaned back, letting out the air he had been holding. “Then,” he began, trying to form his words into the most carefully thought out sentence possible, “then we don’t release it. Plain and simple. Nothing to get worked up over.”

 

“Welp,” Trent shrugged. “It was fun while it lasted. I might miss it.”

 

Brian looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he grinned playfully. “What? Gonna miss me pounding into your bloody guts while you just lay there and take it?”

 

Letting out a short grunt, Trent closed his eyes and pressed the back of his head against the couch. Brian thought he heard a soft groan. “Don’t put it that way,” Trent murmured, remembering when Brian tied him to that table all exposed and ready to be violated to no end. He couldn’t deny how it made him feel at the time, how it still made him feel. It was hot. Brian’s dominance had taken a whole other turn, and Trent had been at his mercy, however fake it was.

 

“Is this…?” Trent quickly glanced at Brian and reddened. “…turning you on?”

 

Blushing an even deeper shade of red that he desperately tried and failed to hide, Trent grumbled under his breath, “No. Don’t get any fucking ideas, Brian.”

 

With a fresh smirk on his face, Brian leaned forward so that his lips very nearly brushed against Trent’s ear, making him shiver at the warm, somewhat pleasing sensation. “You like when I tie you up and use you for myself?”

 

That was it. Especially when Brian’s hand “accidentally” slipped onto Trent’s crotch. Getting up with an exaggerated sigh, Trent stormed out of the room.

 

“You’re hard,” Brian yelled after him in a sort of sing-song way.

 

“My room,” Trent called back after a moment’s silence. “Five minutes, fuckface.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay everyone, so we established by the end of this story that none of this is real. Trent is not violated, tortured, dead, and ruined in this story. Brian is not a cannibal and a killer. In fact, you can read the end for the ultimate plot twist:   
> Both are just sitting there in front of the tv with horrified looks on their faces watching their creation of this fake snuff film and both wondering if they went a little bit too far. Enjoy!   
> More smutty and fluffy stories will come later as well as the follow ups to NKN to make up for this! Thank you dears for bearing with me. <3


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